


Clever Counterfeits

by ExpatGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Angst, Confusion, Dean's pining and Cas has no idea, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Fanfiction Gap, Frybread is delicious, Gen, Gentle Dean, Human Castiel, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7347682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the hours between Cas' stint as avenging babysitter and his return to work in the morning during "Heaven Can't Wait".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clever Counterfeits

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Prowl Great Cain" by the Mountain Goats.
> 
> I was very, very angry yesterday. BurningTea told me to write something with it. This is that thing. It helped a little bit.

Castiel understood anger, the way he understood almost nothing else. In a sense, it was what he _was_ , or at least what he’d long believed himself to be. He knew its many tastes and textures: the bright bitter purity of righteous wrath, always at a slight remove, the downward pour of it; the storm-foamed fury of betrayal, mourning--righteous, too, in its own way, the anger of abandoned children; the dissociative hatred of a million slithering beasts, the malformed Host that predated his own, with their hungers.

But this caught him by surprise. So many things did these days, often enough that the novelty had long worn off, but this was something new: this red-stained throb, closer to him than his own jugular vein. It wasn’t clean or bright. It was mingled with too many things for him to find its edges clearly. It bled. It was porous. Other things, other feelings, soft and dangerous, seeped in no matter how hard he tried to keep them at bay. No time for righteousness of any kind when you’re--oh, what was the phrase he’d used back then?-- _just a man_. Just a man who’d sprained his wrist because he’d wrestled an angel and been overcome.

Well, the heroes of old were long dead, and there were none on earth who could now match them, were there?

Dean chose that moment to unlock the door and walk in. Castiel couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from their rueful uptick. They seemed to do it whenever Dean toppled him with yet another casual flourish.

Dean noticed, because of course he did. “Something funny?” he asked, stepping in and bringing the cold air with him. He set two bags down on the table next to the door. His face was a mixture of wariness and good humor. That had been his expression for the last few hours.

“Just--wish I’d ended up with a limp instead,” Cas said, holding up his arm in its shroud of clean bandages.

That brought Dean up short. “Why?”

Cas shook his head, let Dean sit on the outside of this particular joke. His wrist ached, and the thing lodged in his throat responded. “What’s in the bag?”

Dean took the deflection with only a blink. “Um. Dinner. I, uh, I haven’t eaten in like, ten hours.” Cas could smell it now, the smell of grease and grilled  meat, more pleasing than he remembered any incense ever being.

“Ah,” he said, standing. His hunger descended all at once. It still astonished him the way it could do that. “Food. Yeah. Good idea.” He reached for his wallet, hissing at the abrupt jolt of pain that sailed up his arm. He took a breath, used his other hand. Adapt or die. That was the mantra.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking---how much money I have. There’s a Pancake Hut three blocks from here. Be back in half an hour.”

Dean had stopped with his arm still in the bag. His eyes flickered left to right for a moment, as though Cas had suddenly ceased speaking English.

“Cas,” Dean said. His voice turned strangely around the one syllable, like a planet going out of orbit. “Seriously? Dude, I bought us _both_ dinner.” He held up two foil-wrapped parcels with a faintly helpless expression on his face.

“Oh,” Cas said, putting his wallet back in his pocket with some difficulty.

Dean looked at him silently, some unknown emotion passing over his face like a dark cloud, before he smiled again. “Yeah, _oh_. Forget Pancake Hut, man, this is the good shit.”

“What is it?”

“Frybread taco. One of mankind’s truly great inventions.”

 _Well, there’s the wheel,_ he thought. Though that had been invented by a woman.

“Better than beer?” He asked instead. He couldn’t find it in himself to move forward and take the food Dean was offering, though his hunger made a compelling case.

“Woah, hey,” Dean said, smiling in earnest, and the bloodsweet pulse of Castiel’s anger was at once soothed and inflamed. “Let’s save the deep philosophical debates for after dinner. Besides,” Dean continued, reaching into the second bag and withdrawing a brown bottle. “We can perform a, uh, what’s it called? An empirical study.”

“You brought alcohol,” Cas said, finally taking a step forward, and hoping Dean didn’t hear the note of fervor in it.

“Well, yeah,” Dean said, putting the bottle down with a thunk. “Your first successful hunt as a human.”

“Success.” Cas held his arm up again like a rebuke, feeling the red spike against his throat. “I’m too tired for sarcasm, Dean.”

“Sarcasm?” Dean sighed. “Cas,” he said, and the gentleness in it shouldn’t have set Cas’ teeth on edge, but it did. “Look. I’m sorry you got hurt. Really. I am. But... you gotta take the wins where you can, okay?” He had moved into Cas’ space as he talked. Dean stopped in front of  him, much too close, and Cas took an involuntary half-step back. For some reason this made Dean freeze before his voice resumed its normal tone. He clapped Cas on the shoulder. “And this? This is a win. Friends celebrate wins.”

“Do they,” Cas said, almost startled by the flatness of his own voice.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Of course,” he said vehemently, and for a moment Cas was standing in the Green Room, feeling his world tilt on its axis, surrendering to vertigo. Then, Dean let go and added, more evenly: “Only one beer, though, because I’ve got some Tylenol for that busted arm of yours.” He walked back over to the table and began laying out their meal.

“Don’t you have anything stronger?” Cas asked, finally succumbing to the need to eat, the need to sit down, the need to imbibe some kind of substance that would make him feel...anything than whatever it was he was currently feeling. “You had a bottle of oxycodone in the glove box a few months ago.”

Dean’s knuckles turned white around the neck of the bottle he was holding. “No. One, I sold most of those. And two, that’s _way_ too heavy duty for a sprain, Judy Garland.”

“I’m--in a significant amount of pain, Dean. Just...tell me how many to take and I’ll….”

“ _No._  Okay?” Dean wrenched the bottle cap off, and it fell onto the table with a clatter. It took him a moment to regain his breath, and Cas unlocked himself from where he’d recoiled into his chair. “It’s...that stuff’ll only make you feel worse when it wears off. So, you know, take some Tylenol. We’ll put some more ice on it before bed, and you’ll be back to stacking those shelves like the pro you are in a few days.”

There was nothing to do but agree.

“That’s the spirit. Now, come on, dig in before it gets cold.” He grinned. “I wanna see what you think of this.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Dean seemed uncomfortable for a moment, before shrugging easily. Cas must have been imagining the discomfort. “Man cannot live by nachos alone, my friend.” Somewhere, something in Castiel throbbed.

Dean tipped his bottle forward until it clinked against the neck of the one Cas had yet to pick up. For some reason he winked, and Cas had to look away.

Cas took a bite and barely held in a noise of pleased surprise.

“Well?” Dean asked, eyes shining expectantly.

“It’s…”

“Awesome, right?”

Cas swallowed. “Delicious. Thank you. You’re...very kind.”

Dean’s expression darkened again, but all he said was: “Don’t mention it.” He took a long pull of beer, and when he put the bottle down, his smile was back.

****

This feeling was, like most things, quickly becoming something beyond his remit, as though it had a mind and life of its own, morphing from one thing to another before he could properly understand its nature. He couldn’t get a lock on it, so any hope of killing it was out of the question.

What could he do with this companionable silence, or the halting shyness that seemed to punctuate all of Dean’s questions? They weren’t companions. And Dean’s conversation was merely a matter of good manners and, probably, an attempt at coaching Castiel on the finer points of small talk. He found that both ideas enraged him and he didn’t understand why. Dean had done nothing wrong, and now was paying him a kindness. Multiple kindnesses. Dean was good, and, above all, righteous, in a way that Cas had lost. Perhaps that was it. Dean’s presence reminded him of his own isolation, his frailty--and he had no one to blame for either of those things but himself. Dean being here reminded him of his penance, and of all the reasons he was obliged to do it. His Father--or whatever was left in his Father’s wake-- worked its will through strange agents, after all. He’d once been one of them. Though, he supposed, no one was more fitting for this role than Dean. That didn’t bring as much comfort as it should have.

Then it struck him: he’d been aiming his anger in the wrong direction.

“I’m tired,” he said suddenly, after yet another question he didn’t feel like answering. This one had centered around his coworkers. Specifically any “girls who might, uh, you know, might be interested in something other than your potential as a babysitter?”

Castiel prodded at the numb skin that had turned dark under the ice pack. Strange how nerve endings seemed to shut down when they couldn’t take any more.

“Uh, right,” Dean said, letting the matter drop with only minor fumbling. “Too bad your landlord isn’t cool with unannounced guests. That’s pretty harsh. Lemme guess, no toga parties either.”

“I don’t make the rules,” he said, hoping that Dean wouldn’t see the evasiveness on his face. He probably did. Dean saw most things.

“No, I guess you don’t,” Dean said quietly. He retrieved a bundle of clothing from his bag. “Alright, so...here, you can wear these to bed. Let me re-wrap that arm for you.” He reached out.

“Um I...uh…” Here was something Cas hadn’t thought through. Dean had bandaged his arm in the car, but the pain had been so fresh, and so overwhelming, settling on him in jagged spurts  as the adrenaline faded, that he had barely noticed. And Cas had unwrapped it himself while Dean went to go fetch another cup of ice from the machine. But the pain was dulled now, shrouded in analgesics and alcohol, with only the occasional sharp, brittle shock when he moved it wrong. And without that, all he had to focus on was Dean. The drawing together of his brows as he held Cas’ elbow and forearm. The way his thumb moved carefully over the injury, featherlight but sure. How unbearably close they were sitting, and the way the bed dipped under their weight to bring them even closer. It was, of course, necessity and skill that guided these touches, rather than tenderness or affection, but Cas suddenly didn’t care. He was desperate for kindness from any quarter, but particularly from this one, and if all of the soft touches and gentle looks he received were destined to be bookended by pain, well then, that was just the way of things. He was too tired to fight fate at every turn. Let her have her small victories over his small life. What did he care? Dean was _right here_ and watching him with strange, starry eyes as he pinned the bandage in place.

It took a long moment for Cas to realize that Dean had finished, that they were simply sitting, looking at each other from only a few inches apart. That Dean’s hand still gripped his elbow.

“Okay,” Dean said, dragging Cas from his stupor. “Buttons.” His voice was very soft. Cas wanted to lean into it, so he did.

“Buttons?” Even to his own ears, the word came out dreamy and a little slurred.

Dean plucked at his shirtfront. “You gotta change for bed.”

Cas frowned down at himself. “Oh, right. Yeah, I…What are you doing?”

“Try this yourself and we’ll be here all night,” Dean said, sliding the shirt free from Cas’ shoulders. Cas watched with interest as Dean’s throat worked. Then Dean was leaning towards him. Cas felt his heart try to dislodge itself from its normal seat behind his ribs; he took a deep breath, leaned forward, and...oh. “Here,” Dean said, shaking out a plain black t-shirt. “Arms.”

Then Dean paused at the sight of his tattoo, pressing two fingers curiously to the central glyph--the same one that was carved on Dean’s own sternum. The palm of his other hand rested very near Cas’ hip. Cas tried and failed to suppress a shiver. “Hey, how’d that mook manage to find you with this?” Dean asked. “I thought he was one of your guys.”

Cas’ breath seemed to fail him. Pestilence had once caved his lungs in, turned the delicate tissue of them to pulp. Some strain of tuberculosis, maybe. This was worse.

“Just got lucky, I guess.”

Dean stilled, undoubtedly hearing the lie. He gave a terse nod, then resumed his work. Cas could breathe again.

Dressing was a laborious process, but Cas had always understood the dignity of labor, and he felt disinclined to rush things. It was a good thing Dean didn’t meet his eyes, because Cas wasn’t sure what Dean would see there if he did. He suspected Dean wouldn’t like it.

“Okay, how do you want to do this?” Dean asked, stooping to pick up the clothes Cas had discarded.

“I’m sorry?”

“You want me to swing by your place early so you can change clothes?”

“Um, no, I--I’ll just wash and dry these in the morning. It’s...It was laundry day anyway, today. Nothing clean to wear.”

Dean nodded, chewed the inside of his cheek. “Okay. Laundry room’s on the ground floor. I’ll go do it for you.”

“Dean, you don’t have to…”

“Don’t sweat it,” Dean said, already halfway to the door. He looked agitated, like he was walking away from an argument he wanted to finish. “I’m gonna take a walk, anyway. I think that frybread, uh, you know. I think I ate too fast.” Dean had actually taken longer to eat than Castiel had, seemingly content to watch him and offer opinions about other foods that he might want to try, rather than finish his meal. Cas didn’t mention this.

“Yeah, okay,” Cas said, sitting back down on the bed. “Thanks. Wallet’s over there.”

Dean shook his head, and gave a smile that was probably meant to be indulgent. “On the house. Get some sleep. I’ll try not to wake you up when I get back in.” With that, he was gone.

****

Cas dreamed of cold water and fire raining from the sky. He dreamed of letting go of Dean’s hand. In this dream, his arm began to char and blacken as soon as Dean’s fingertips retreated. He jerked awake with an incoherent shout, only to be greeted by Dean’s silhouette  sitting on the edge of his bed. For a moment nothing was real.

Dean shoved his shoulder gently, and Cas slowly became aware that his sprained wrist had become trapped under his body. He rolled on to his back and sat up a little, looking around. The covers on the other bed were rumpled.

“You need,” Dean whispered, settling himself on top of the covers as though the bed might break under his weight, “to keep off that arm.”

“I know,” Cas said. His voice was a sandpaper scrape of sound in the dark. “I’m not doing it on purpose. I can’t keep still.”

“I can see that,” Dean said, laying himself out carefully, and now things seemed even less real than before. “You learn to sleep around injuries. Hunting 101.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Keeping you still. Here, put this pillow under your arm.” Cas did. “Okay, between that on one side and me on the other, ain’t nowhere for you to go.”

This, Cas reflected, was true. On many levels.

There was movement next to him, Dean settling down, flat on his back.

“You want under the covers?” Cas asked.

“Nah. Too hot.”

“Oh. Well. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

There was a weight on his thigh. Dean gave it a pat--or, rather, something that began as a caress and ended with a brusque tap of the palm. “You too, buddy.”

“Thanks.”

There was a long stretch of silence. The heater rattled to life.

“Cas, I...I gotta head back tomorrow, okay?”

Every paradise was temporary. “Of course.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night.”

In the morning, his anger would begin its work again, red-clawed and brutish, but this time he would make sure those claws were turned in the right direction. For now, though, he let the blank hum of the motel, and the subtle heat of Dean next to him--animal comforts, both, but was that not now what he was?--lull him into sleep. And if Dean slept, or if, instead, Dean spent the night watching him, he had no way of knowing.

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) Jacob wrestled an angel (or God, according to some translations) and was blessed by him. He came away with a limp. Which, you know.  
> 2.) Frybread tacos are seriously delicious. [You should try one](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/50435/fry-bread-tacos-ii/).  
> 3.) How bad do you think Dean wanted to kiss him? So bad, in my estimation.


End file.
